In a department store that's really a second-hand store, I am browsing news stories. the format is unclear and perhaps irrelevant: they may be in books, magazines, on VHS tapes, or memorialized in extruded, cast, vividly painted polymers. In any case, I am trying to decide which take best represents the event in question (also a McGuffin--it could be a WWII battle or a Monty Python sketch for all I know) and I am carefully considering each. They are all on the bottom shelves of several adjacent sections, and having contemplated a contender I decide that it is inferior to one I perused a little while ago... where was that?
I retrace my steps but cannot find it. I assume it must be on the facing side of this rack of shelves, so I head around the corner and hunt further. Nope. I keep checking racks until I am several stacks away, in another department of the store. I finally allow that it can't possibly have been this far away, and head back to where I started. But now there are several women browsing the same little area, and they impede my search.
Waiting for them to clear out, I head over toward the front of the store, where a furniture display sits beckoning potential buyers through a great panoramic bank of windows. It is dusk outside and cars in the parking lot are turning their headlights on. (Back in those quaint days when one had to turn headlights on! And wear onions on one's belt.) I am wearing a yellow collared shirt and underpants; and, wandering amongst the furniture with no other shoppers around, I decide I can continue and finish my shopping without the underwear: the yellow shirt must be for tall guys because the front and tails come down past my genitals and butt, respectively. I pull my undies off and rebutton the bottom few buttons of my shirt. This will be fine.
But the exhibitionist charge earned here precludes any further shopping, so the next thing I know, I go to check up on a number of friends whom I've been hanging with. They are all disposed, individually or in pairs, on bunks--upper and lower berths lined up three abreast against opposite walls of a basement room. In the middle of the far wall, perpendicular to the bunks, is a large TV display showing gay porn. All my friends (including a number of hetero ones) are busy having sex with themselves or each other. Adam and his girlfriend are in the upper left bunk closest to the TV and are unhurriedly making out. Various solo guys are working their cocks with various levels of abandon.
Speaking of which, here's John Dugan, lovingly tugging his outsize pud, upper right, center. As always, he is breathtakingly desirable. But this is new territory to me: while I am used to exhibitionism I am not used to everybody else doing it. This casual, communal fuck/wankfest is strange and wonderful. There are no bunks left but I park myself in the middle of the floor and start to masturbate--first with a blanket over me, then, emboldened by the spirit of the room (although I haven't officially been invited to participate, I make an assumption that it's fair game), out in the open.
Somehow, though, this prompts John to cover up. Despite his business being conspicuously unfinished, he wraps himself in sheets like swaddling clouts. And, honestly, fuck that noise: I immediately go hit him up and unwrap him. He is accommodating and friendly, as usual. Oddly, this version of John Dugan is extremely hirsute; and he has recently shaved his body hair, resulting in numerous razor burns and stubble. That's a bit of a turnoff but I am on a mission: I lick and kiss up the inside of his thigh to his taint, then sit him down and take his gorgeous cock in my mouth. And like a video game where I have conquered the big boss, this scene is done.
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